If I Saw You In Heaven
by JPLE
Summary: 'For death begins with life's first breath, and life begins at touch of death.' Who on earth said the marauder's story ended with their deaths? ETERNAL HIATUS
1. Prologue

_.prologue._

He was falling, through years and centuries and millennia, dropping, rotating and spinning towards nothing. His back arched into an unnatural shape, an indicator of the most physical sense that earthly concepts no longer applied.

He wasn't really aware or conscious, shit, he wasn't even _alive_. There was some kind of sense he had that told him he was simply _there._ That, in some crazy, parallel universe, he existed.

The air was thick around him, sucking everything he'd ever remembered or seen or experienced along with him, stripping him bare, although somehow lifting his chest and releasing all those memories from his conscience, releasing the guilt or hate or shame.

It felt almost as if it did when he took some of those crazy muggle drugs with Remus that one time after seventh year, and they'd felt so detached and alone, and couldn't feel each other even though they were touching for _twelve bloody hours._ Those little orange tablets had lifted Sirius up, up and away just the way he felt now, except he was falling and falling and just not crashing.

And somewhere back from where he had come, he was faintly aware of Harry, and he was aware of wanting to yell back to him, envelope him with his arms in a show of brotherly love and tell him it was different, he wasn't really lost...

But he was alone.


	2. Inbetween

_'Would you know my name  
>If I saw you in heaven.'<br>_

* * *

><p><em>.inbetween.<em>

Sirius had never felt like this. Never in his life had he been this disorientated, this exhausted, this aware.

He had toppled under the archway gracefully, and fallen meticulously, arching and careening through nothing to where he was now. The fall had been blurry, indistinct and cloudy, and all different shades and tones of white and cream, hazing in and out of focus. Marshmallows, puffs of cream or feathers cascading all around him. He thought, ironically, it may have felt something like birth.

He couldn't recall much of the fall, he couldn't even remember hitting the ground. Hitting the ground was a bit of a fallacy really, because he wasn't sure if the ground even existed. It was hard to know if anything existed, given that_ he_ didn't really exist. Or did he?

It was as if in one second he was toppling dangerously through those thin, watery sleeves of material, the next he was dreamily floating through substances too thick to be air, but too thin to be water. Then, with no warning, and without even feeling impact, he was lying on his stomach.

(If time even existed here).

The veil had been soft and alluring, thin and flimsy yet powerful. Sirius had felt the pull of his body towards it, quietly beckoning him. The purple fluttering sheets, singing with voices, begging him to join them, lulling him into the security he knew it did not offer. The material had been silky smooth and weightless, but in reality had held the weight of its power between its folds. So illusory and deceptive; a good indicator of death itself.

Deceptive because Sirius had never believed in any kind of alternate existence. Never believed he would have been able to feel the grassy, knotted ground beneath him, never believed he could have felt his body functioning even in the most basic of ways. He was surprised to find himself moderately the same as he had always felt, with the exception of his physique which had, amazingly, figured itself to resemble a pre-Azkaban Sirius Black.

He flexed his muscles, which were the same sinewy, lean fibres to which he had been accustomed before his incarceration. The ink that had blackened his chest and shoulders had vanished, his hair longer and thicker, falling over his face. Death, he mused, had been mercifully kind in some ways.

He could smell the earthy scent of the ground clearly, like he was Padfoot all over again, and if he pressed his lips to it he was sure it would taste gritty like soil. He could hear as well, god he could hear so _clearly_, the forest noises, the light wind which twisted over him casually, with the knowledge of a thousand souls which had travelled here before him. He could hear relief and calm and _sorrow_, sorrow of which he had not previously been aware and could now feel aching through his bones.

It was as if, within mere seconds of his arrival, he was back within the confines of that broken world from which he had came, and worry and pain washed over him like waves upon the shore. Crashing down onto the sandy expanse, denting it, gravitating it back into its watery depths.

_Harry,_ _Harry, Harry _his brain screamed, the name clawing itself to the front of his mind, the apex of his conscious thought. Harry was still alive, Harry was still in danger and Harry was hurting.

His godson, so small and fragile and untouched by many of the horrors life had deprived him of. He knew that Harry thought that he'd seen them all, experienced the lot, and he had known too much pain for a boy of fifteen. However he hadn't seen what Sirius had seen, death in numbers too great to count, soulless bodies still drifting across the earth, blankness etched on their faces, sorrow in their hearts. Harry hadn't seen many of the horrors Voldemort had created, and was still to create. Yet Harry was at the mercy of Voldemort now without him there, and he knew that Voldemort harboured no mercy.

It wasn't fair, his brain reasoned, still inches from the ground. Harry was young, he was courageous, and he still had years in which to experience some of life's more grand things, more happy, precious moments. For all Harry had ever really known was fear and struggle. Having the constant threat of an enemy with only your death in mind was sure to be taking a toll on such a young spirit.

He had to live and love and pass his NEWTS (or screw them up, it didn't really matter in the scheme of things), pass his apparition test, get married, have billions of black haired children that looked exactly like James...

Sirius found that tears existed in heaven. Hot, wet, sliding tears which ran slippery down his nose and dripped to the ground, mere centimetres below his face. Sirius had never cried back there. He didn't cry for his own account, he didn't cry for the misfortunes of others. He hadn't cried for Lily or Marlene or Alice and Frank, hell, he didn't even cry for James and James was his _brother_.

He hadn't even cried for his real brother. Or his mother. Or his father. Whatever consolation that was for those maniacs. He wondered if they were up here as well.

But he was crying now, tears sliding and slipping, dripping and dripping and dripping...

His eyes were stinging and hurting and he felt a great knot in his heart. Like someone had flung a lasso around it and began pulling it back towards them with great force. Like it was clawing at his chest, trying to beat its way out, escape from his newly reformed body, strong and lean but all too tainted.

It was physically painful, at first like a fleeting pain that annoyed him, growing inside him with every tear, into a slashing great river of red which he wanted to swallow him whole. He looked cautiously down at his front, expecting it to be dripping with crimson blood, just as the salty tears dripped off his face.

He cried for Harry, because Harry was alone.

He cried for himself, because he'd left him there to face the pain alone.

He cried for Remus because...

...Remus wasn't dead and Remus could forget.

(Please don't let Remus forget).

He wasn't real. Not-real people weren't meant to hurt.

He wasn't even sure what he was. Sirius definitely wasn't an angel, even in his wildest dreams he never would have imagined himself as an angel, even a tainted one, black as charcoal and spoiled as rotten fruit. Sirius was dark and black and full of intrigue and mystery. He'd been good, faithful, and loyal. He'd been bad, vengeful, hateful and spiteful.

Angels simply weren't bad.

Sirius wasn't an angel, although he'd known some angels. He'd probably ruined a fair few angels. He'd broken a fair few angels, tainted them beyond reasonable repair. He'd tossed away angels, some with long, blonde, angelic hair and pretty eyes, others with hearts of gold and diamonds, deserving of anyone for simply what lay on the inside.

He'd loved one angel.

One angel who could make him feel just as innocent, just as complete as if he had a real halo and _wings._ God, he loved that angel's wings.

That angel could make him soar higher than any other ever could. He took him to the moon and back, around it, further towards the sun, melting him a little but making his heart or _something _inside his body explode into a thousand, shimmery pieces. Shimmery pieces that shone out of every pore in his body, somehow making him more beautiful.

(Because only angels can do that).

Then his angel would drift him slowly, back down to earth, and lull him to sleep, run his _magical_ fingers through his hair softly and smoothly until there was nothing left in his mind's eye but blackness and a perfect, lovely, angel.

Yet, he'd ruined this angel too. Because angels weren't supposed to fall in love with real, heartbreaking boys like Sirius. No-one was supposed to fall in love with Sirius, because Sirius loved no-one.

Especially boys. Sirius couldn't love a male, he liked girls, lusted after them, imagined them, soft skin and flowing hair with beautiful eyes on him. He couldn't have ever wanted a strong, toned, muscular body against him instead. He'd wanted soft, light kisses, not rough, hot, absolutely engaging kisses which in reality drove him absolutely insane with desire.

_In reality_, he couldn't really get enough, even if he liked girls.

This angel had drawn him a little too close, with its desire and passion and heartbreakingly soft demeanour. Damn it, if he just hadn't been so _bloody fragile_ and easy to break, then maybe it wouldn't have turned out all _shit_ and _ruined_ like it had. If Sirius had only been able to tread a little more carefully, a little more sensibly..,

But it was gone, before his eyes, and the angel turned and ran and left just as Sirius had been caught and chained and defeated.

Angels couldn't ever be _that_ bad.

Even when he'd returned back to the angel, nothing was the same. He had hard eyes and closed his heart off, roping around it with that fluoro crime scene tape that made Sirius think nauseatingly of Peter _Bloody_ Pettigrew and all he had created.

Then, with no warning, circumstances had changed, just before he had left for the Department of Mysteries.

The angel and Sirius had fought (with words and fists), and there was a bit of blood and hate and spite and _the fucking passion_ which had just served to send Sirius even more nuts than he already was, having years of wanting no one but that _fucking goddamn angel._

This went on for what seemed years and years, and there were tears and more blood and hearts breaking all over the stupid, dusty bedspread in his parent's house. Then they were suddenly kissing, (or snogging, very intensely), and biting and sucking and _oh god_ touching like they were the teenagers back in the Gryffindor common room with the much overused silencing charm...

...and everything was perfect. Just for that moment, perfect.

Now, it was ruined. Sirius was here, his angel was there. Nothing had ever been more screwed up.

He lay there, silence surrounding him for a moment, before he really began to hear. Hear something which shouldn't have existed, wherever he was.

Voices; angelic voices, muffled by what seemed to be a muggle radio static or something, but Sirius begged to hear them all the more. The noises seemed to come from the willow tree which grew over him, knurled roots toppling out from the trunk and cascading around him like ropes begging to capture him and hold him forever in this mystical place.

The tree emitted whispers, not unlike the veil, but back from where he had come. He begged to hear more, and lifted himself from his stationary position on the ground to hug the tree beside him. He was extremely weak for such a strong and built body, feeling absolutely helpless and agitated, only soothed by these magical voices, rushing from the leaves of the willow, spiralling down off the branches to his feet.

The voices were soft and alluring, but difficult to hear. He couldn't hear the emotion in their voices either, for now. For now it seemed it was just a technique to torture him, to give him some of the cake but not allow him to eat it.

He begged, wordlessly at first, and then vocally to hear the two voices for which really mattered, because he swore this was the portal back to the place beyond here, less perfect and illusory, very much real with very real people who very really wanted to hurt those who he cared most deeply for.

He couldn't have known how much time had elapsed, he was barely aware of the most basic of instincts, but the tree lulled him and drew him like a moth to a flame, and he was willingly oblivious to every other stimuli there could have been in the mystical, alternate world at that time. Absolutely nothing else mattered.

Days, weeks, months. Just for the murmuring of the flat, toneless voice of Harry and Remus.

He couldn't even really hear what they were saying. It was just _their_ voices, he knew it, and he clung to it like water for a parched throat, or food for the hungry. It was absolutely vital.

He listened...

...and listened...

...and listened.

No days turned into nights here, it was just bright all the time, day all the time and despite the length of time Sirius stayed at the tree, he didn't get hungry or thirsty or hot or cold. It was as if this place was accommodating his desire for the tree. His distinct need to stay there for however long it took to go back, or to bring the others here.

So he listened...

...and listened...

...and listened.

Until it seemed like he should have withered away there, motionless and still. The earth should have eaten him up, consumed him, at least caked him in dirt and mud and frozen him to the spot.

But it was not so, and he stayed there.

Just listening.

Time was meaningless, and his brain was turning to mush when he first heard the real voices. Crystal clear and growing louder. The voices in what seemed like reality were advancing on him, arguing between themselves, a male and a female engaged in an irritated discussion with one and other.

Sirius worried that they would take him away from his lifeline, so he clung on fearfully, eyes darting around for that threat, feeling much like an injured animal.

'He's been here for an eternity.'

'So? It's not our place to take him! You _know_ the dangers of taking someone too early up there! They might abhor it and then what will happen?'

'Could you not use highly advanced English with me? I thought spending eternity with you was to be the answer to my lifelong dream, not the bane of my existence.'

'Is this your answer to a replacement?'

'You're too smart for your own good flower.'

'Bloody _ha ha_ James, you prat.'

'A lovely prat?'

'Undecided.'

'Come on Lily, you've had _eternity_ to decide!'

'Maybe.'

'Maybe?'

'Okay, okay, a lovely prat.'

'Thank you.'

'Now, how are you planning to approach this?'

Sirius clung to the tree, completely oblivious to anything that had occurred between the two voices as they swept out from the cover of the trees.

They were beautiful, preserved just as their seventeen year old selves, all new and unaffected by war or pain. Stepping fluidly along the grass of the clearing, seemingly floating as they hurried to join him.

Lily was flushed as always, a lovely shade of pink colouring her cheeks with dark auburn hair flowing out behind her head in a long, loose ponytail, the picture of practicality. Her physique was slim but muscular, as it had been in her final year of Hogwarts, with no inkling of pregnancy which had remained there even on the day of her death. Her eyes were brilliant and green as ever, framed by dark brown lashes, crinkling in the corners as she smiled at him comfortingly.

He saw James just as he had always remembered him, just as he had always looked in the smiling pictures beside his bedside table, laughing and joking in death. His hair was still messy and unkempt, his eyes hazel and bright, showing no sign of the fear and worry they had whilst on earth. His skin was olive and tanned, his build strong and muscular as if he had been training obsessively for the Quidditch season in the years which had elapsed.

James was smiling brilliantly at him, searching his eyes for the sense of recognition.

'Sirius' he breathed as he came within mere metres of the body clinging to the tree.

A voice Sirius knew so well and welcomed with open arms at the same time as he feared it. He wanted the voice to envelope him, embrace him, and know that he was back with James who had missed beyond anything else. But James meant death, and Sirius was afraid of such things, reality or non reality.

'Get up Sirius' James murmured, stooping to help him.

Usually Sirius hated pity, and James' voice was rich with it, running through his words like creamy custard. He'd hated it ever since he was a small child, and his great aunts and uncles had pitied him for being the unloved child. A child with so much to grow into, but who was bestowed upon so little faith by his matriarchal mother and weak willed father. It was surprising how potent these memories were, penetrating even death to haunt Sirius. As if it was not he who should be able to haunt others.

He wanted to stay, clinging to the little piece of earth that he had left, the tree which soothed him. But he knew within him somewhere that the venture was fruitless, that little would come out of it. He _knew,_ somewhere within him, that he could never go back, and that he would have to wait for the time in which those he longed for would come after him.

So he let James help him to his feet.

His legs felt new and strange, and he had to test the ground thoroughly with his feet to see if it would stand its ground.

'Where are we going?' he asked, hearing his voice come out of his body like it were not his own, a dreamier, relaxed version of himself.

'Home' Lily smiled, reaching over to him and brushing aside the wetness that still clung to Sirius' face.

'Can you hear them too?' he asked in desperation.

'Of course' James smiled, 'but trust me buddy, you can see a lot better from up there.'

'Up where?'

'Where we're going.'

'Where is that?'

'You're just going to have to trust me, idiot' James proclaimed, a smirk dancing on his lips.

'Well, you haven't got any less irritating' Sirius mused, shoving James in the stomach.

'Say what you want, but I think I've gotten a lot better looking.'

'Shut it Bambi.'

They walked and teased each other over the clearing and though the forest, Lily skipping ahead of them, paving the way.

All too soon they found themselves at wrought iron gates, looking suspiciously like those from Hogwarts or the Room of Requirement, and they opened before them, leading into a plain of grass which looked just as inviting as the willow had.

'Are you coming Sirius?' Lily asked, stepping though the gates gracefully.

'Have I got a choice?'

'Of course not mate' James said teasingly but Lily intervened.

'Sirius' she spoke, 'you can stay here and waste away by that willow that shows you nothing, or you can go on with us.'

'Go on?' he murmured.

'You can't go back Sirius, no matter where you stay.'

So although his heart hurt from all that he left behind, Sirius stepped into the gates and went on.

Just simply on.


End file.
